


your mouth is wine

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Where I Go [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, M/M, When D/s overtones get switchy, Wine Mom Hannibal Lecter, god forbid this 'verse have actual plot, porn with feelings but no actual plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: Will is a menace and should not be allowed out of the house, or away from Hannibal’s side, not ever.  It’s all Hannibal can do not to say as much. He really should have stopped a glass or two earlier.Or: An interlude in the collared!Will 'verse, with booze, feelings, and a soupçon of smut to help us all get through the week.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsSaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSaxon/gifts).



> A) Oh god, this is SO LATE, but it was intended to be a birthday fic for MrsSaxon, who will perhaps forgive the lateness.
> 
> B) She may perhaps also forgive that Hannibal stubbornly refused to get as drunk as I wanted him to be, knowing she's a fan of Drunk Hannigram. You'll have to settle for tipsy/handsy but not full on Sloppy Drunk Hannibal. Maybe another time he'll cooperate.
> 
> C) This is definitely not intended as dubcon - if anything, it's pretty explicit about "there is stuff we would like to do but dude, you are too drunk for that to be a safe/smart thing to do." But nonetheless, Wine Mom Hannibal Lecter is drunk, and there is Sex Stuff, so I leave the note here to err on the side of caution in case that's anyone's anti-jam. Come back another day and I promise to write you some stone cold sober smut, my darlings. <3
> 
> D) Title is lifted from my very favorite Hannigram-y song, the Civil Wars' "[Poison & Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNlxKH9Jtmc)." Which is really more of a season 2 song, but, well. I couldn't resist. Wine Mom and all.

It’s a measure of how many glasses of wine there have been that Hannibal doesn’t hear a thing.  (The number of glasses may itself be a proxy for how dull the day’s clients were, or how unaccustomed he is growing to evenings spent alone.) And his phone is still resting in the kitchen, where he left it during dinner because he is not a savage.  So he misses the text messages and the slamming of the car door, and is caught entirely unaware when his front door swings open.

Will blows through the door in a flurry of activity, shattering in an instant the peace of Hannibal’s quiet evening.  A gust of wintry air swirls in with him; Hannibal can feel it disturbing the air from two rooms away. Will’s probably tracked slush in on his boots. Hannibal pictures it melting all over his foyer.  He tries to feel annoyed but the feeling slips, subsumed in the rarer pleasure of surprise.

He follows Will’s progress by ear and, as he gets closer, by scent.  More slush on the rugs, no doubt.  Will’s coat slung over a chair, scarf draped over an expensive statue, the heavy overnight bag he takes on Jack’s trips weighing down a delicate antique side table.  Will handles Hannibal’s things almost as roughly as he lets Hannibal handle him.  Hannibal has never pointed this out.  He fears it would lead to escalation: further abuses of his collection as provocation. 

Will draws closer and Hannibal waits, still and attentive, considering whether being hunted might feel like this. Likely not. He can’t detect in himself any note of alarm or concern, only delight and a warm, dizzy pleasure.

He would know his guest by the scents he brings into the room when he finally arrives, if he didn’t already know the footsteps. Snow. The canned-air scent of an airplane and the musty interior of a taxi. _Will_. He allows himself a single deep breath and a few moments to hold the air in his lungs, as if he could absorb Will into his blood that way.

 _You’re early_ dances at the tip of his tongue. _I missed you terribly_. Instead he merely swivels enough to see Will at the door, pink with chill and exhausted around the edges of his eyes.

Once Will sees Hannibal he freezes, all his unconscious grace turned awkward in the doorway.  “Hi,” he offers, a hint of uncertainty showing up only after he’s finished throwing his belongings all over the house.  

The wine in Hannibal’s bloodstream picks that moment to sing out its presence, with no pretense of being collected and reserved. The words trip off his tongue after all: “I’m so glad to see you.”  His voice sounds warm and pleased and perhaps just a little as if he’s thinking about rubbing his cheeks up against Will’s stubble.  Which he is. Just a bit.

“There wasn’t anything else I could do there, so I came back early.”  Will makes his way across the room, some ease returning to his movements.  “I was going to head home.  But I still have the dog sitter for another day, and you’re always complaining that I have to leave so early in the mornings to get back to them, so I thought maybe you’d want me to…”

Hannibal means to do the polite thing.  To ask about Will’s trip home, whether the flight was difficult, whether he’s hungry or wants to freshen up. He really does. But instead he finds himself shifting on the sofa to make room, holding out a hand, and saying, “I missed you.”

Will’s small sigh sounds like relief.  He drops down next to Hannibal a shade too close for politeness.

“I don’t actually have to stay tomorrow if you’ve got things to do.”

Hannibal stretches out an arm to pull him in and sniff at the nape of his neck, where travel scents give way to a purer sense of Will.  “I always try to leave room in my plans for the unexpected,” he murmurs against the skin there.

Will squirms a bit, ticklish under the light touch, and turns to sniff at Hannibal himself with elaborate exaggeration before raising an eyebrow.  “Your breath smells like a winery.  Is this what you do when I’m not around?  Sit around in your three-piece suits and get quietly smashed?”

“I took off the waistcoat before dinner.”

He hadn’t intended it to be funny, but apparently it is.

“Of course you did.  Just spending a casual night alone at home, huh?”

Will pushes at Hannibal.  Not really enough to make any real space between them, just to get a better look at him.  Hannibal supposes Will may see a slight flush, or some difference in his pupils or his motions, but nothing telltale to anyone else.  He forgets sometimes that his ability to see Will better than most people cuts both ways.  

“I can open another bottle if you’d like to catch up,” he offers.  Distraction, in lieu of confession that, no, he doesn’t usually drink this much alone. That the minutes were ticking too slowly, and he’d thought a bottle or two might speed them along.

“Not right now, thanks.”  Will narrows his eyes at Hannibal and smiles, some of that exhaustion draining out of his face. “I _did_ show up with plans.”

He should send Will up to shower off the hotel-airplane-taxi-crime-scene scent clinging to him, the way he would if Will had come home tomorrow as expected. But caught off guard and off-balance, Hannibal realizes he’d rather rub himself all over Will like a cat. Until all he can smell on Will is himself.  He feels a little dazed with that thought, stupidly aroused by it.

In the end, before he can decide on either course of action, Will’s half in his lap, framing his face carefully with his too-cold hands, kissing him carefully.  Will’s lips are cold, too.  They taste of instant coffee and an awful artificial mint. .

It’s been four days.  Four days, four hours and...some minutes.  Hannibal can’t quite think of the exact number. Not with the deliberate, thoughtful way Will’s kissing him now, as if they might need to become reacquainted with each other.  The precision is maddening; it makes him want to shred Will entirely, until he couldn’t be this slow or careful if his life depended on it.  

He contents himself for the time being with working a hand up under Will’s shirt to roam over the  smooth and warm skin of his back.  He slides the other downward to anchor at Will’s waist before saying, “Tell me about these plans of yours.”

He only trips over the words a little bit. Will does things without even trying to Hannibal’s ability to articulate himself, and the wine isn’t helping.

That gets him a sigh and a torturous little wriggle of Will’s weight in his lap before he answers, “No good now.  I was thinking on the way over about what you promised me on the phone. But now I’m thinking you probably shouldn’t be waving lit candles around tonight.”

Hannibal wasn’t going to _wave the lit candles around_ , he was going to _carefully_ drip the hot wax after blowing them out.  He’d had colors in mind, and patterns. But Will’s right. Unfortunately.

“Tomorrow,” he promises the curve of Will’s neck, kissing at the tendon there in apology for being caught unprepared to fulfill one of Will’s requests.

Will becoming comfortable enough to _make_ requests is still so new that being unable to meet one sits uneasily.  Even if it’s entirely sensible not to be engaging in that sort of play when he’s had several drinks; even if he couldn’t have expected to see Will at all tonight.  It tugs at something tight and unpleasant in his chest, draws his hand tighter at Will’s hip and sends him burying his face tight against Will’s throat.

“Hey.”  Will’s voice is insistent, even as he’s not trying in the slightest to get out of Hannibal’s grip.  “Tomorrow’s fine. I wasn’t even sure you’d be home tonight or if you’d be okay with me staying over. If you want, we can just keep making out on this couch like normal people who don’t actually have a dungeon full of whips and chains upstairs. It’s kind of fun.”

Now he’s just poking at Hannibal to annoy him, clearly, because he knows Hannibal hates thinking of the second bedroom as a _dungeon_ ; it’s so banal. And there’s all of _one_ whip. And hardly any chains because Hannibal much prefers the scent of leather or the texture of rope as restraints go, and…  Hmph.  He knows exactly what Will’s doing, much too good at distracting Hannibal from the topic at hand.  

Will is a menace and should not be allowed out of the house, or away from Hannibal’s side, not ever.  It’s all Hannibal can do not to say as much. He really should have stopped a glass or two earlier.

Will saves him from himself by tugging at him gently until they’re face to face, and then saying, “I think maybe you ought to let me put you to bed, Doctor. You might need to sleep this one off.”

There’s not much to do downstairs.  The dinner dishes are long since washed, Hannibal’s work for the evening completed, and he has no intention of gathering up the belongings Will so quickly scattered through the downstairs.  Will times his steps up the stairs to Hannibal’s, not precisely holding him up, but with one now-warm hand at the small of Hannibal’s back as if to steady him.  It’s entirely unnecessary and yet he finds himself unwilling to say so, leaning into that small touch.

The bedroom has felt empty this past week, between Will’s trip and his need to spend quality time with his dogs before leaving them alone.  It’s felt empty and now Will has returned to it and as quickly as that, it comes to life again.

Will drops to the edge of the bed with a happy sigh, bounces once, and smiles guilelessly up at Hannibal before he reaches out to start working on the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt.

“I may have missed this bed more than I missed you.”

“I can’t even be offended, knowing the kind of hotels Jack pays for.”

“Good.”  Will squints at a button that doesn’t want to slide through its buttonhole properly, then manages it, sliding his hands warm and sure under the half-open shirt and up Hannibal’s sides.  “You feel really good. Can I…?”  He motions vaguely at Hannibal’s clothing.

Usually Hannibal would tell, rather than Will asking - it feels unusual to be asked, but not unpleasant.  Hannibal swallows a _yes_ , knowing it would come out rough and wanting, and just holds out his hands for Will to unbutton his shirt cuffs and finish undressing him.

Will undresses Hannibal slowly and carefully; for all he makes fun of Hannibal’s wardrobe, he does try to handle it with a modicum of care. The shirt comes the rest of the way off before Will lets himself slide off the end of the bed and onto the carpet, onto his knees.  It’s not a graceful move, precisely, but then it doesn’t need to be to serve its purpose.

He puts a hand on Will’s shoulder as Will bends to work Hannibal’s shoes and socks off his feet, for the balance and the contact.  Slides his hand just a bit further down, to feel the muscles of Will’s shoulders and upper back work as he sets the shoes and socks aside.  Will leans into the touch with a delighted-sounding little “Mmm” and then rocks back onto his heels, resting his hands at Hannibal’s waistband, and looks up as if to request permission again.  Never entirely sure, even when the evidence is quite literally in front of his face, straining and ruining the line of Hannibal’s pants, that he’s allowed and wanted.

Hannibal intends to fix that eventually, but for now he just says: “Go on. You’re the one who wanted to put me to bed so badly.”

It’s possible Will doesn’t mean for Hannibal to make out his muttered _just trying to keep you out of trouble_ as he gets to work on Hannibal’s zipper. There’s no easy telling - it’s one of his innumerable delights.

Will coaxes Hannibal out of his pants and underwear together - a soft click of his tongue to cue Hannibal to lift each foot, entirely as if he’s tending a member of his pack.  It makes Hannibal laugh despite himself at the odd situation, a mirror-image of what it would usually be: Will dressed, Hannibal not, Will caretaking and Hannibal’s head fuzzier than it should be.  The laugh earns him an answering grin and an oddly shy little duck of Will’s head before he pulls himself upright and goes to drape Hannibal’s pants over a chair.

Hannibal stretches himself out on the bed quickly so he doesn’t miss the show of Will undressing.  Not that Will’s taking any particular care about it tonight - it’s just layers of plaid and worn cotton peeling off his skin and into a pile on the floor.  But that’s enough of a show, and always an entertainment for Hannibal to see how carefully and ineffectively Will tries to hide his beauty from the casual observer.  It doesn’t work well even with the full costume in place, and it certainly doesn’t work when he’s undressed, exposed to cool moonlight and warm lamp-light and Hannibal’s hungry gaze.

In no time at all they find themselves back where they’d left off downstairs, tangled and eager, long breathless kisses and the welcome pinprick wounds of nails and teeth.  

“I thought about you,” Will says above him, breath warm just behind Hannibal’s ear.  “All the time.  Jack kept having to repeat himself.  You’re ruining me for my work.”

“Good. You should stay here, anyway.  Your students need you.”

“My _students_?”

Will’s laugh is all the more delightful for being hard to earn, even now.  

His hands are stronger than they look, like the rest of him.  Hannibal imagines he can feel the individual calluses against his skin no matter how lightly Will touches him. He grasps a bit wildly at the thread of the conversation and doesn’t quite manage to keep it. The hands are too distracting; his mind is too mazed.  He lets the conversation drift away.

He plucks one of Will’s hands away from its place on his chest and brings it up to his mouth, to kiss at the palm and then the thin skin of Will’s wrist, where his pulse beats close to the surface.   _Fast now_ , the doctor in Hannibal notes without an ounce of clinical detachment.  

Will smells less like the outside world now and more like Hannibal.  It’s viscerally, absurdly pleasing.  He rubs a thumb over the radial pulse where Will’s life flutters fragile just beneath his skin.

“I could keep you here.”  He’s not entirely aware that he’s speaking out loud until he hears his own voice.  “Tie you down a dozen different ways.”  Could, and has, and will - his memory palace is a riot of both true memories and things he’s only planned for the future.  Will bent and tied and held for him dozens of different ways, with silk and rope and leather.  An entire gallery of Will _staying._

But here and now, even though Will’s pulse continues to race and flutter against Hannibal’s fingers, he only bends in for another kiss and says, “Not tonight, you can’t.”  And then, with a quick twist of his arm against Hannibal’s slower-than-usual reflexes, Hannibal’s hand is pinned to the mattress next to his head and Will’s grinning sharp-toothed at him and adding, “But I could.”

It’s a joke, perhaps, until it’s not.

The words hang between them until silence makes them weightier than they were perhaps meant to be. Will’s hand tightens its grip on Hannibal’s, pressing him down, as the energy between them twists into an unfamiliar form.  Hannibal can almost hear it crackling, clearing some of the fog from his mind.

He doesn’t even try to get free.  

He trails his free hand slowly up Will’s hip and side, letting him feel the deliberation and invitation in the movement.  Up and up, to cradle Will’s face in his hand and bring him in for another slow kiss.  And then he lets Will go, and settles his hand next to his head.  He mirrors the one Will has pinned, palm up in an approximation of supplication.  He waits and watches, to see what Will might do next.

There’s a particular trick Will has, of narrowing his eyes just as his pupils blow wide and dark.  It tends to happen when he’s surprised or suspicious of Hannibal’s motives, or of his own enjoyment of something. It makes him look like a wild thing.  Hannibal would paint it if he could, but it’s nothing a still image could capture - it’s a thing of motion and speed, impossible to pin down.  Film might capture it, someday.

“Go on, then,” he offers.  The tiniest of pushes to see what direction Will might jump.  “What else did you think about instead of your work?”

Will releases Hannibal’s wrist and watches carefully as he stays, as surely as if he were bound.  Will flushes ever so slightly and sits up straighter, a solid weight on Hannibal’s stomach, fingers tracing barely-there lines over Hannibal’s chest and stomach.

“Oh, all kinds of things.”  

Deliberately vague.  Testing to see if Hannibal will insist on being told; if he’ll pry Will’s mind apart and spread it out like a feast, as he sometimes does.  Instead he stays quiet, and Will eventually bites maddeningly at his lower lip before going on.

“Right now I’m thinking that I’m exhausted and you’re drunk and this is probably going to be fast. And I’m kind of sorry about that. This is...interesting.”  

He squeezes once at Hannibal’s wrists - _stay there_ \- and then he’s sliding down out of reach, nudging Hannibal’s thighs apart to fit himself snugly between them.    Hannibal means to say _tomorrow, we can do so much more of this tomorrow_ , because tomorrow is an entire stretch of time stolen from Will’s job and dogs and life, laid out whole and pristine before them, ready to be ravaged.

But he doesn’t say any of it because Will’s mouth knocks the air right out of him. It’s sudden and startling as hitting the ground after a fall from a great height: a shock of sensation that precludes rational thought about itself. But isn’t that what he wanted, after all, back when he’d finished the first bottle?  Not to think tonight?

He can give Will this.  His not-thinking.  

And so he lets go and allows himself to sink into sensation. Lets his hands seek sheets to twist in to keep them up and away where Will wants them.  Lets his body move and bend as it wants, as Will encourages it to do with mouth and hands and small encouraging sounds, a language of their own beyond the limitations of speech.   Lets himself say _good_ and _oh_ and _Will_ just as soft and liquid as he feels at this particular moment.

He doesn’t quite make it.  Somewhere there at the end, he forgets and one of his hands finds itself moving after all, tangling in Will’s hair (coarse with hotel shampoo) and stroking his jaw (warm, scratchy), frantic for touch.  It’s the sort of thing that might have earned Will a rebuke, fond or harsh depending on the day, were the roles reversed.  

But Will doesn’t seem to mind; once he’s done, when Hannibal’s tensed and shattered and melted, he just laughs and twines his fingers in Hannibal’s and says, “You’re terrible at holding still.”  A little hoarse, voice rubbed raw, but _pleased_ like he hasn’t sounded in these days of late-night hotel-room phone conversations.  

It takes a few moments for Hannibal to surface from as far down as he let himself go, but he can’t let that go without a rebuttal.  He pulls himself together to string together a few words: “You’ve finally found my tragic flaw.”

Will snorts rudely, bites down none-too-gently near Hannibal’s hip, and says, “I always knew you had one.  Kind of thought it was the control-freak sadist thing, though.”

 _You like that about me_ , Hannibal doesn’t say.  He’s still too bare, flayed wide open with pleasure, and he knows how it would sound.  Wondering and soft, the way he thinks about it in his head, and it would scare Will away.  

Instead he just shifts, hauls Will back up within kissing range.  He’s starting to be able to feel his fingers again after the boneless lassitude of his orgasm, and wants to put them to good use.  Which he does, and does, and when Will is pressed in close, face buried against Hannibal’s neck, shivering at his touch, the world starts to slot back into its more accustomed order.  

It takes longer than he’d expected, with Will already so wound up, but seemingly unable to quite let himself go.  He twists in Hannibal’s arms, near-sobbing with the need for it, but can’t quite reach that place he needs to be until finally Hannibal thinks to say _you’re home now, let go, I’ll take care of you_.  And then Will finally lets go and comes with a harsh cry and a mess, clutching at Hannibal to keep him near, as if there’s anywhere else he might possibly want to be.

Afterward Will’s sweet and sleepy, all his bark and bite gone temporarily, although it comes back a little as they clean up.  When they’re curled back up together in fresh sheets, Hannibal takes a deep breath and finds himself utterly satisfied by Will’s scent: toothpaste, Hannibal’s soap, contentment.  Not a hint of taxicab interior in sight.

“Some people would find that creepy, you know,” Will mumbles.

“Those people aren’t invited to sleep in my bed.”  

“Good.”  Will squirms into a more comfortable position, flinging an arm over Hannibal, reminding him of nothing so much as one of Will’s own dogs.  Silence for a while, then: “It was a bad one.  Jack wanted me for one more day but I just...couldn’t. It was getting too far in my head already.”

Hannibal resists the urge to pet or praise Will for that decision.  He’s pleased, perhaps too much so, that Will felt able to pull away instead of running around at Jack’s command.  But he knows Will’s limits well now: where he wants praise, and where he doesn’t.  He’s touchy about his work.

Instead he just asks: “Will you tell me about it?”

“Not tonight. Maybe in the morning. I feel like I could sleep twelve hours.”

Will won’t; he never does.  But it’s nice to imagine he might, safe and warm in the haven of Hannibal’s bed.  Hannibal might bring breakfast up, breaking his own rules about eating in bed.  Will might feel safer talking about the shadows in his head in full sunlight, and Hannibal will enjoy listening more than he should, and they’ll both know it.  And then they’ll see where the rest of the day takes them.  It’s a pretty picture to take with them into sleep.

Next to Hannibal, Will’s breath is slowing into something deeper and steadier, nearly asleep.  Hannibal lets his hand drift inward a little from Will’s shoulder.  He moves lightly enough not to disturb Will, who shifts and sighs but doesn’t wake.

There’s enough moonlight to see by as Hannibal lets his fingers spread warm and soft at the base of Will’s throat. Light and delicate, just where a skin-warmed necklace or a collar might lie, if Will would ever wear such a thing.

It’s late, and Hannibal’s tired and sated and probably still drunk. It’s not the time for thinking about such things, or making impulse decisions.  But he _feels_ abruptly and entirely sober as he watches Will’s breath rise and fall under his hand, and he doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time.


End file.
